


look at the stars, it's written there

by carnival_papers



Series: deep in the heart of texas [2]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Intimacy, M/M, Stargazing, Texas, Touch-Starved, makeouts and classical music, the elaborate and stupid texas au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the riots, Javert takes Valjean stargazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look at the stars, it's written there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/gifts).



> this is maybe the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written and i don't feel bad about it at all. 
> 
> some important things: this fic is written with the idea that the dallas production actually takes place in dallas, which may not have been what the director intended, but i'm pretending it is. i live in the dallas area, so i tried to ground this fic in that reality as much as possible. as such, there are references to specific places/buildings/etc in the fic that may be unfamiliar to people not from dallas. to help with that, i've made up a post [here](http://ratkiley.tumblr.com/private/114433914297/tumblr_nlonkbdFce1raljeq) with links to things referenced in the fic. i've tried to keep that post as spoiler-free as possible. it's not necessary to know what these places look like for the purposes of the fic, but if you're interested and/or want to have a Multimedia Experience while reading this, check out the link. 
> 
> i am indebted to wren/vaincs for her betaing on this fic. wren, this fic would not be half as good without you indulging me and listening to me wail about dallas for hours on end. thank you so, so much!
> 
> finally, this was written for olivia/icicaille's birthday. i hope you like it, and i'm sorry it's not smutty. ♥

At the liquor store on the way to Valjean’s house, Javert picks up a bottle of wine and wonders whether or not men who might be dating are supposed to buy each other flowers. It’s not exactly a date, he reminds himself, and Valjean would probably be embarrassed, anyway.

He finds himself stuck in front of the cabernet sauvignons for too long, trying to decide between an Argentinian and a Napa Valley. The descriptors on the labels are overwhelming—lusty, spicy, robust, well-balanced. He can’t quite remember what Valjean likes and Javert isn’t much of a wine drinker, so he eventually settles on the Argentinian, just because it sounds more exotic.

The kid at the checkout counter stares at Javert’s badge before scanning the wine. Maybe it does look a little weird, a Dallas cop all the way out here, but what does he know, right?

Javert can feel himself shaking already. He tries to joke, thinks maybe it’ll make him less nervous. “You’re not gonna card me?”

“I only have to card customers who look like they’re under forty,” the kid says, defensive. “That’ll be $27.05.”

“Right,” Javert says, too anxious to be offended, and fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. He counts out correct change, watches the kid shove it into the cash register without checking to make sure it’s right. Javert thanks him when he hands over the wine in a brown paper bag. The kid doesn’t say anything.

Back in the car, Javert finds the blanket stuffed under the passenger seat and wraps the wine bottle up in that. So this isn’t exactly ethical, probably—carrying his wine in the patrol car—but he’s okay with bending the rules for this. Besides, it’s faster to go straight to Valjean’s house from the station, and people tend to get out of the way when they see the Charger coming down the road.

Valjean’s house is fifteen minutes away from the liquor store, so maybe that’s enough time to figure out what to say to Valjean, and whether or not this is a date, and if they’re even actually dating. It’s been kind of complicated—which is kind of an understatement—but Javert wants to figure this out, for his sake and Valjean’s.

He’s not even really certain how this happened. It’s been two years since the riots and everything is different now, the city and Valjean and them. All those kids died and, yeah, Javert feels like he can say it now—he was ready to die, too, gun in his hand at the corner of Harry Hines and Mockingbird, weighing his options. Of course Valjean had been there, spent and huffing after carrying Marius all the way to Parkland and from running after Javert. He easily recalls the feeling of the gun against his temple, the metal cold against his June-sweaty face, and Valjean’s voice, quiet but firm, saying his name.

Valjean has said Javert dropped the gun but Javert is sure Valjean knocked it out of his hand. All he remembers is running for the next best thing, halfheartedly throwing himself in front of a sedan and hoping more than his ribs would crack.

In the hospital, Valjean brought him newspapers and played classical music. It was annoying, seeing his face all the time, eyes closed while some European string section crescendoed. Javert hadn’t understood then why Valjean was always around, so set on taking care of him. But Valjean smuggled him coffee, so Javert reluctantly thanked him and tried not to complain too much about the music.

If someone had asked him two years ago—ten years ago, twenty—if he would ever expect to be maybe-dating Valjean, Javert would have pulled a muscle laughing. But here he is, sweating on the way to Valjean’s house, worrying that he should have shaved.

He drives up the winding, wooded road to the subdivision and the scent of pine needles wafts in through the air vents. There are too many trees up here; Javert prefers the manufactured greenness of the city. He supposes Valjean probably finds it comforting, though, and the house is nicely secluded, with a view of the lake from the upstairs picture window.

Javert considers pulling into the driveway and honking, or, better yet, driving straight back to Dallas now and being able to avoid this. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous—he doesn’t usually get like this, but something about Valjean sets him off-balance.

It’s confusing because they’ve been in this in-between for months now. Strange as it is to admit it, Javert is certain he likes Valjean and wants to date him, or whatever it is that men their age do. But he’s not so sure about Valjean. He at least _seems_ interested in Javert—he definitely didn’t protest when they kissed on the back porch at Cosette’s New Year’s party. It’s different when they’re sober, though, and Valjean isn’t exactly forthcoming with his feelings.

Most of the time Javert doesn’t mind it. It’s enough to have Valjean around, to have someone to talk to and—okay, to kiss now and then. But he would be lying if he said he didn’t want more than that. They’ve been circling around this long enough, spending Saturdays in the city together, taking Cosette and Marius’ tickets to the theatre when they couldn’t go. Those seem like the kinds of things people in relationships do.

But Javert doesn’t really know what people in relationships do. So maybe he can’t complain.

When he rings the doorbell, Javert wishes he’d bought flowers. His palms are clammy so he shoves them in his pockets, thankful that he at least had the sense to leave his gun and radio at the police station. Valjean opens the door tentatively, eyes wide, looking Javert up and down.

“Hi,” Javert says, immediately feeling even more self-conscious. Valjean has a way of pinning him with a look, of making him feel like he’s under a microscope.

Valjean drums his fingers against his thigh. “Did you come straight from work?” he says. He’s in an oversized, paint-spotted Relay for Life t-shirt that betrays the strength of his body; the sleeves are tight around Valjean’s tattooed biceps. It’s these little contradictions that make Valjean so perplexing—former mayor with prison tattoos up and down his arms; kind and gentle, but quick to throw a punch when threatened; so full of love for others and so slow to accept it for himself.

“Yeah, I’m, uh—I’m in the Charger, actually. I hope that’s okay.” Javert hasn’t thought about it not being okay until right now, and of course he’s suddenly worried about that, too. Everything seems exponentially more difficult when Valjean is involved.

“Oh,” Valjean says, and bites his lip. “Let me get my shoes.”

Javert watches him wander back inside the too-big house. When he comes back, he’s paired slip-on sandals with his white crew socks. Javert wants to laugh at him, or shake his head at least, but Valjean’s cluelessness is kind of endearing, and Javert can’t really say his fashion sense is any better.

“Ready?” Javert asks, and Valjean nods as he locks the front door behind him.

“Should I have dressed up more?” Valjean hesitates at the car door.

Javert clicks it open with the remote in his pocket. “You look great.”

Valjean’s lips flicker with the hint of a smile.

“It’s, uh, kind of a long drive, so get comfortable,” Javert says. Valjean clips on his seatbelt and exhales. Javert watches him reposition himself, cross and uncross his legs, slip off his sandals onto the floorboard. “Okay?”

Valjean nods, a little too eager, and Javert backs out of the driveway. The place is nearly an hour and a half away and of course Javert hasn’t considered how they’ll spend all that time. Talking, he guesses, but they tend to be pretty bad at talking about important things. They’ve just turned out of Valjean’s subdivision when Valjean asks, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Javert says, and Valjean gives him a tired look. “Trust me, alright?”

“I suppose if you were kidnapping me, you would have put me in the backseat, ” Valjean says. Under his breath, he adds, “Though I’m sure people will wonder why I’m not back there anyway.”

And then it strikes Javert how dumb it was to come in the Charger, to not even think about changing out of his uniform. “Oh, shit,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

This is the problem, this is the rub between them—when they’ve had too much to drink, it’s easier to forget all that complicated, messy history. Their lives have seemed to follow each other, intentionally or unintentionally, so it’s maybe not that crazy that they’ve ended up here, together like this. Though Javert admits he never expected to have Valjean in a police car under these circumstances.

Once, after too many glasses of cheap wine, Valjean told Javert his family never came to see him at Huntsville because the gas cost too much to drive all the way out there, and that he didn’t want them to see him anyway. If Javert thinks back, he can remember being sixteen and visiting his dad there after school, being enthralled with the way the metal detectors worked and feeling something he couldn’t name in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his father in handcuffs. Valjean would’ve been in prison there too, by then. Javert knows now that the feeling was revulsion, because sometimes it still heats in his chest when he sees the five dots inked between Valjean’s thumb and forefinger.

He reaches over the gear selector and takes Valjean’s hand in his own. “I’m an idiot,” Javert says, and Valjean laughs.

“It’s alright,” Valjean says, “I make things difficult.” Valjean brushes his thumb over Javert’s and Javert savors the way it makes him shiver. It’s hard not to want to pull the car over right now and hold Valjean’s face in his hands and tell him all the difficulty, everything, is worth it. Instead, Javert gives Valjean’s hand a soft squeeze and thinks about how nice it will be to kiss him later, when the stars are out.

Javert has never really wanted to date anyone before—it’s never really been of much concern to him, and he’s not sure if he even knows what it means. There were guys in college, nights spent underneath baseball players who smelled like sweat, but they were only ever nights. And maybe it’s stupid for him to want more than that now, especially with Valjean, but he does want it.

“You really won’t tell me where we’re going?” Valjean says, shifting in his seat.

“Nope,” Javert says, “you’re just gonna have to wait.”

Valjean huffs. “Can you at least put on some music?”

Javert nods and reluctantly removes his hand from Valjean’s to take the wheel while he digs in the side panel compartment for a CD. They’re not technically supposed to listen to music when they’re on duty, but long hours on patrol can get boring, and no one really says anything about the music so long as you answer when you’re called. Javert finally finds the little paper slipcover for the CD and puts the disc in the player. Valjean chuckles a little bit when the sound of Yo-Yo Ma playing Bach begins.

“You liked it?” he says.

“Of course,” Javert says. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

Valjean presented him with the CD a few months ago, with ‘for Javert’ scribbled on it in permanent marker and a handwritten track listing folded inside the slipcover. Javert’s never listened to classical music before, but since the days in the hospital, Valjean has inundated him with it, all soaring strings and swelling pianos. It’s not the sort of thing he likes, usually—Javert doesn’t really enjoy music, though he catches himself singing “Folsom Prison Blues” now and then—but maybe the fact that it’s so connected with Valjean makes it palatable.

The first time he listened to the CD, on a long night shift in Oak Cliff, it sent him reeling. Some of the tracks were new, but some of them struck him— _Valjean played this in the hospital_ , he remembered at a Vivaldi piece, and thought, _was this playing at the New Year’s party?_ at something soft with lots of piano, and _I know this from the wedding reception_ and _he hums this when he waters the plants_ and _this was on the radio when we kissed in his car_. They made his chest tighten, and he listened again and again.

“Cosette had to sit down with me for an hour to make it,” Valjean laughs. “I’m still learning how to use the computer.” Javert glances over and Valjean’s eyes are closed, his smile like shade from the summer sun.

“I hope you like what I have planned,” Javert says. “I’m afraid it’s kind of corny.”

Valjean shakes his head. “I doubt that.”

And for a while after that, they’re quiet, comfortably so. At some point, Valjean reaches for Javert’s hand and Javert gives it willingly, the sun setting over the highway in front of them, Valjean’s fingers twining between Javert’s. Javert thinks, briefly, that this might be enough, that it might be satisfying to just have the road and the car and Valjean and the night, that he could live on the promise of endless days of this.

It’s tempting to say something about the pieces on the CD. Javert wants to ask, _Did you pick these on purpose? Are you trying to tell me something?_ But the fact that he wants to ask is answer enough for him, and Valjean would evade the question anyway, would probably say that those were his favorites, and that’s it. Still, it’s hard to ignore the way the last song—Valjean wrote _Barber: Adagio for Strings_ on the track listing—makes him want Valjean to kiss him in the car again.

They’d spent the day in Dallas, walking through what used to be downtown. The riots have mostly been forgotten, but there are remnants of them everywhere. Passing by the old schoolbook depository and through Dealey Plaza, Valjean paused, his face grey.

“This is where the barricade was,” he said. He pointed at the broken windows of the schoolbook depository. “There were snipers, I remember.”

It had been a museum once, commemorating a president gunned down in the street. But it was ransacked in the riots, all the glass display cases and boxes of textbooks salvaged for the barricade. _Freedom Now!_ is still spray-painted on the side of the building in bright yellow.

“I wish they’d clean this place up,” Javert said. “It makes the city look bad.”

Valjean had freed him there under the overpass. That girl had died in Marius’ arms in the middle of the street. There were bodies strewn across the plaza and dipping out of the broken windows for days. Red everywhere, stinking and sticking in the June heat.

There on the corner, beneath the broken stoplight, Valjean began to cry. Before the riots, people cried here all the time, remembering that dead president, his brains spilled out on the road. But the riots—the police and military were celebrated for their actions. The media called the kids _thugs_ and then promptly forgot the riots even happened.

Valjean’s face was in his hands and Javert felt helpless. How do you comfort a man you made this way? He pulled Valjean into his arms, awkward, thankful for the empty streets, and held him there. Wanted to apologize, but didn’t know how to say it. Valjean’s body was small in Javert’s arms, his face buried in Javert’s shoulder, and Javert searched for the right words to say to him. Nothing came.

When Valjean finally pulled away, his face was red. He said, “I think I should go home,” and they walked to his car in silence. In the car, Valjean idled in the parking lot for a few minutes, still catching his breath, Javert still unsure of what to say. Valjean fiddled with the radio, tuning it to the classical station, and—“there,” he exhaled over the strings. He turned the radio up loud, too loud, until it was all noise, and he found Javert’s hand and kissed him suddenly, closed-lipped, and Valjean’s face was still wet and the song sounded like static and light. Confused, Javert kissed him until the music died away.

Javert can’t bring that up, though, so he says, “I’ve been listening to this a lot, it’s, uh—it’s really nice. Relaxing.”

“I didn’t think you would like it,” Valjean says. “You used to complain so much about my music.”

“Things change,” Javert says, and Valjean gives a short, sharp laugh.

“They do,” Valjean says, “they do.”

At Cosette’s New Year’s party, they’d both had too much champagne. Marius’ grandfather had sprung for the good stuff—real stuff that foamed and fizzed when the cork was popped—and that was it. Javert can remember sitting inside with Cosette, talking about old action movies and finishing his fourth flute of champagne, and starting to feel sweaty beneath his collar and moving out onto the back porch for fresh air. It was cold out, not quite midnight, and Dallas was glittering in the distance, the lights in the skyline almost like stars.

And there was Valjean on the wooden swing in a dark tailored suit, and his eyes were unfocused and tired, and Javert wanted to kiss the crown tattooed on Valjean’s neck but settled for sitting next to him on the swing. “I think I’m a little drunk,” Javert said, and Valjean didn’t scoot away even though Javert was sitting too close.

Valjean said, “So am I,” and Javert remembers him smiling, easy, and looking out at the sky beyond the fence and the trees.

“What does this mean,” Javert said, the impulse to touch too great to fight, fingers against the smooth dark skin where the ink had long since spread.

“It means,” Valjean said, gently lifting Javert’s fingers from his neck, “I was a dumb kid once.”

Then—the pop of fireworks, cheers from inside the house, the swell of what Javert now knows was Rachmaninoff over the speakers, the sky shimmering with color, Valjean’s mouth soft and open and smiling against Javert’s. Javert hadn’t even felt himself move, but there they were, for the first time, kissing clumsily—or, rather, Valjean being kissed clumsily, allowing it to happen, his fingers light at Javert’s collar, fluttering over Javert’s throat, nervous but not pushing away.

Javert committed the next moment to memory—pulling back to see Valjean’s face red, biting his lip, half-giggling, still touching Javert’s throat. “Well,” Valjean said, and laughed and laughed and laughed while the last fireworks made sparkling galaxies over the city, far off.

Tonight, they will have real stars, and maybe Valjean will be rendered speechless once again. Secretly, though, Javert hopes they’ll be able to talk a little more, and part of him almost wants to ask now— _what are we?_ —but the fear of screwing up the rest of the night is too much to overcome.

The CD loops back around to the first track as they pass the Whitney city limits. Javert says, “We’re almost there,” and Valjean blinks a few times as if waking himself up. The paved road turns to gravel and dirt and twists up a hill, around a corner, and through the trees the moon is silver on the lake.

At the top of the hill, Javert eases the car off the road into the grass near a fenced-in lot. With the high beams on, it’s easy to see where the ground ends and the cliff begins.

“Is this legal?” Valjean says.

“This is mostly legal,” Javert says. He gestures at the glove compartment. “There should be a flashlight in there, if you want it.” Javert puts the car in park and steps outside, quick to get over to the passenger side and open the door for Valjean. He finds the blanket and bottle of wine under the seat and only then realizes he didn’t bring cups or a corkscrew. Oh well.

He tucks the blanket and bottle under one arm and places his other hand flat against Valjean’s back, slowly leading Valjean to the edge of the cliff. “Easy,” Javert says, careful that Valjean does not step on any unsteady rock or into any of the dips in the ground.

Javert hangs on the way Valjean’s breath catches when he sees it. The cliff is rain-smoothed rocks all the way down to the water, which looks like a giant oil slick shining with Christmas lights. And the sky is _brilliant_ —no clouds, no fog, no illuminations save those innumerable stars. Javert gets pleasantly dizzy when he stares straight up, finding constellations like old friends, remembering nights spent in the backyard with a library book and a flashlight naming Libra and Virgo and Ursa Major.

Valjean says, “This is beautiful.”

“There’s too much light pollution back near Dallas, so—so you can’t see them, but you have the city lights, so I guess you—don’t really need them.” Javert can feel himself babbling, but Valjean is here and they’re under the stars and it really is beautiful and he can’t stop himself. “When I was a kid—before my dad was in prison—we would come out here every summer and stay with my aunt and uncle, and my cousins would jump off the cliffs into the lake, but I was always afraid to. Um, but, I—they always do fireworks at the Fourth of July, and I burned my hand on a sparkler once—”

“Can we sit down?” Valjean says, his voice soft.

“Oh,” Javert says, “yeah. Sorry.”

He spreads the blanket out in front of the car and helps Valjean to the ground. They settle in together nicely, their arms against each other, Valjean’s weight against Javert’s shoulder. Javert uncorks the wine with his pocketknife and passes the bottle to Valjean.

“No cups?” Valjean says.

“I forgot.”

“Ah,” Valjean says. “Well, cheers.” He takes a long sip straight from the bottle; some of the wine spills down his chin into his beard, though he doesn’t seem to notice it. Valjean hands the wine back to Javert, who takes a quick drink and is pleasantly surprised by how good it actually tastes.

Javert finds a flat patch of ground to set the bottle down. There’s still wine in Valjean’s beard, and Javert finds himself reaching out, touching Valjean’s chin with his thumb, smoothing the liquid out of the hair there. Valjean’s eyes close when Javert’s fingertips meet his skin. Somewhere nearby, a cricket is chirping, and there’s the distant noise of a boat cutting through the water, but all Javert can focus on is the measured, steady sound of Valjean’s breathing, the way Valjean’s face fits perfectly in his hands.

Valjean’s lips move and Javert wants to kiss him. But there are things Javert has to say first, things they need to talk about, and they haven’t said any of them yet. Instead, Javert draws his thumb across Valjean’s cheekbone, dares a finger against Valjean’s earlobe. They are close, and Valjean smells like clean laundry and sun-scorched grass and home.

“Can I tell you about the stars?” Javert says eventually, once he feels like he has memorized the dimples in Valjean’s skin, the topography of his bones. “That’s the whole reason I—that’s why I brought you out here.”

Valjean nods, his face still in Javert’s palms. Javert can feel himself smiling. They shift around, Javert slipping his hands away from Valjean’s face, and Valjean’s shoulder rests against Javert’s chest. Javert hopes Valjean can’t feel the way his heart is racing, pounding out a noisy drumbeat between his lungs.

“Okay,” Javert says, “you know Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, probably, but—the Big and Little Dipper, sorry—Ursa Minor can be kind of hard to find, so you find the Big Dipper first, and—do you see it? The Big Dipper?”

Javert takes deep breaths, tells himself to slow down, that they have _time_. Valjean nods again and settles back against Javert’s chest, in the crook of Javert’s arm.

“So—the outside edge of the Big Dipper, those two stars—if you extend a line straight out from them, you’ll find Polaris—the North Star—which is the end of the handle of the Little Dipper.”

He takes pleasure in watching Valjean squint up at the sky, how he lifts his hand and draws a line in the air with his finger and then, slowly, smiles. “I see,” Valjean says.

“The North Star—it was really important for sailors and travellers, because—well, it shows you which direction is north.” Valjean is looking up at him and smiling, his eyes wide and bright, and their noses are close to touching. “You probably knew that already.”

Valjean laughs and shifts around again. “That’s alright,” he says, “tell me more about them. The other ones.”

And so Javert does. He points out Draco, with its long tail extending between Ursa Major and Minor, and Boötes, the herdsman, and Hercules, broad-shouldered and tall, stepping on Draco’s head, vanquished.

Soon enough they’re lying flat on the blanket, the bottle of wine forgotten, and Valjean’s head is on Javert’s chest, Javert’s hand resting lightly on the tight muscle at Valjean’s stomach. It’s strange to feel so comfortable, so totally at ease with another person. This whole situation makes Javert feel vulnerable and exposed—having these feelings for someone else, opening himself up to rejection—but here, now, he feels safe. Like he’s gone back home.

He realizes how ridiculous it is to think that, when home was never anywhere he wanted to be. It was always his father emptying bottles of Wild Turkey, or his mother crying in the bathroom, or being scared that he was going to hell for looking too long at the football players taking off their pads. But maybe, he thinks, this is what home is supposed to be like. This feeling of care and closeness and warmth.

“This is really something,” Valjean says, sounding reverent. “I’ve never seen so many stars.”

“I miss them, being in the city so much. I love everything else about Dallas, but—but you can’t beat this view.” Javert sets his eyes on Polaris, bright and steady above them. “You should see this place on the Fourth of July, with the fireworks over the lake—it’s been years since I was out here for it, but it used to be—it was really nice.”

“Maybe we should,” Valjean says, and Javert can’t tell if he means it or if it’s just something to say.

Javert props himself up on his elbows; Valjean turns over, sits up. “Do you want to keep doing this?” Javert says it suddenly, but really it’s been on his tongue all night, and the words are clumsy but he keeps going. “Not—not coming out here, necessarily, but—all of this.”

Valjean looks at him and speaks slowly. “I want to keep spending time with you, absolutely.”

“Come on,” Javert says. “You know what I mean.”

Valjean takes a deep breath, his fingers at the buttons over Javert’s sternum. He taps the top button twice with his index finger and exhales, his voice low and soft when he says, “Can you take this off?”

That shakes Javert out of his thoughts. “What?”

“It’s, ah—it’s a little distracting. Your badge.”

Of course. Javert sits up a little further and starts at the buttons. “I didn’t really think this through,” he says while Valjean eases the open shirt off his shoulders. It’s a little cold in just his ribbed undershirt, but it means Valjean is more comfortable. Then there’s the pleasant feeling of Valjean’s fingertips on the newly-bare skin of his shoulder, and then the still-more-pleasant feeling of Valjean’s mouth where his fingertips were.

This—this he could live with. But Valjean has ignored the question, and though it would be nice to let this happen, it’s not worth it without an answer. As gently as he can, Javert lifts Valjean’s chin. “I need you to talk to me.”

Valjean meets Javert’s eyes, finally. “I don’t know how to do this,” Valjean says. “You’re the only person who’s ever been…interested in me this way. I don’t understand it.”

Javert laughs and takes Valjean’s face in both his hands again. Valjean leans into the touch. “I am as clueless about this as you are,” he says. “But I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think you were worth it.”

And that is true. The simplest way of putting whatever is in his chest into words. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but Javert doesn’t know what else to say. Valjean is looking at him, shaking his head a little, moving one of Javert’s hands away. “You’re crazy,” he says.

“Probably,” Javert says.

“I’m being serious,” Valjean says. “I don’t understand why you even care about this, or me, or—”

“Do you want a list? All the reasons I—like you?” He stumbles over that word, _like_ , it’s not strong enough, it sounds silly coming out of his mouth. But the alternatives are no better. His hand drifts down over the crown on Valjean’s neck and Valjean lets it rest there. Javert draws his fingers over Valjean’s veins, his Adam’s apple, the bare skin at the nape of his neck, and Valjean’s breath catches.

“No,” Valjean says, the word stuck in his throat. “I don’t need a list.”

 Javert leans back until he is flat on the blanket again and Valjean is over him, his hand on Javert’s chest, the stars behind him bright and clear. “You’re brave,” Javert starts, “and you’re—you’re forgiving, and I like being with you because you always have something interesting to say, and—”

“Stop,” Valjean says. “Please.”

“And I like watching you smile,” Javert adds. “I’ll stop.” He could go on—Valjean’s arms, his hands, the CD, the way he laughs sometimes when they kiss, like he can’t believe it’s happening. How he gives second chances.

Even in the dark, Javert is sure Valjean is blushing and maybe even smiling a little. “Well,” Valjean says, which is what he says when he doesn’t know what to say.

“Well?” Javert says.

“Well, alright,” Valjean says, leaning down a little closer to Javert, Javert’s hand slipping across Valjean’s shoulder. Javert can feel Valjean’s skin beneath his shirt, warm and electric, and Valjean’s muscles move when he shifts his body next to Javert’s. This is a new sensation—the length of Valjean’s body pressed against his, one leg slung over his thigh, Valjean’s chin on his shoulder, his arm beneath Valjean, wrapped around to Valjean’s back. “I want to keep doing this. With you. I’ve just—I never have before.”

He takes a moment to explore the unmapped territory of Valjean’s spine and shoulder blades. It’s odd and exciting to feel this close to someone and not want to run away. This is so different, so new—with the guys in college, it was only fucking, the imagined intimacy of being underneath someone, nothing like this. _Valjean_ is different, and Javert is smart enough to know that each touch from him is a gift, a promise of trust. He has seen Valjean’s hand waver over his, and though Valjean would never say it, Javert is sure he’s afraid about this whole thing.

Valjean presses his mouth to Javert’s neck and Javert forgets how to breathe. He pulls Valjean closer, if that’s possible, and strokes long, soft lines across his back. Valjean’s fingers are at the spot where Javert’s jaw meets his ear and he is turning Javert’s face toward him, fingertips pulling along Javert’s beard.

“You have to talk to me now,” Valjean says, voice quiet. His mouth is unbearably close to Javert’s and Javert aches to kiss him, to taste the last few drops of wine still left on his lips and to relearn the process of sharing breath with him.

Javert groans. With their bodies like this, it’s hard to think of anything else, much less speak. He closes his eyes—knows that the sooner they talk, the sooner they can kiss. So Javert says, “We can go slow. Figure all this out.”

“Alright,” Valjean says. He sounds a bit more reassured now, not as scared or shaky. “Does that mean we’re, what—partners?”

That feels hokey. Makes Javert cringe. “Maybe not that. Who cares what we are?”

“I certainly do.” There’s a smile in Valjean’s voice.

“Can we figure out what to label it _later_ , please?”

Valjean’s lips are suddenly at the corner of Javert’s mouth and he takes that as a _yes_. The way they kiss is clumsy, it always is—unpracticed, hungry, almost desperate. Javert’s fingers twist in the soft fabric of Valjean’s shirt, raising it just so, and he slips his free hand under the hem of the shirt, over the small of Valjean’s back. Valjean gasps against Javert’s face at the touch of palm to bare skin. Javert takes the opportunity to turn his body so they are chest on chest, legs tangled.

He cannot remember kissing or being kissed like this. He cannot quite name the feeling, either. At the New Year’s party, he had felt surprised and warm and wonderful when Valjean did not push him away, and in Valjean’s car, he had felt grateful and validated when Valjean had kissed him in that tentative, almost chaste way.

But this is something different entirely. Valjean is beneath his hands and Javert wants to keep him there and knows now that he would stay—will stay. And though he had expected to taste wine on Valjean’s lips, he does not. Instead he tastes promise, hope like honeycomb on his tongue. He does not fear. He does not run.

As a kid watching the football players practice, shirtless and sweating in the summer sun, Javert felt shame burning hot in his stomach. Guilt at doing something he should not. And facedown on a twin-size bed, slick below some unfamiliar long-legged boy, he felt shame in his chest and guilt in his legs and wanted to run. It was still illegal then, what they were doing.

Other than the law, Javert cannot say what changed. But Valjean’s fingertips are pressing into his back and he is mumbling Valjean’s name against Valjean’s neck and he feels safe, here under the stars, here in this man’s hands.

A word comes to mind. _Together_. He says it into Valjean’s skin, barely a whisper, and Valjean laughs at the tickle of Javert’s beard on his throat. Javert can feel the sound burble up from Valjean’s chest, hear it catch and shake him and spill over the both of them like light. And then Javert is laughing too, and their feet are touching, Valjean’s toes within his socks curling at Javert’s ankle, and whatever space was between them is closed with joy. It echoes off the water, off the rocks on the cliffs, and when they kiss again it is messy, too, and full of laughter.

The sheer improbability of all this. The sheer bliss of it. 

When Valjean stops laughing for long enough to catch his breath, he meets Javert’s eyes again. It’s a powerful gesture, this close together, but Javert drinks the look in. Next month, there will be fireworks over the lake, and maybe they will be here again. But for now, Javert memorizes this moment—the pressure of their bodies intertwined like this, the noise of their laughter still in the air, Valjean’s eyes brown and deep and full of starlight.


End file.
